


only fangs & sweet beguiling

by senpen_banka



Category: Naruto
Genre: (these tags are like objectively hilarious but I'm keeping them bc Catholic guilt), Blasphemy, M/M, Obsession, Priest Kink, Priest and Heretic AU, Sacrilege, Sex, Trans Character, inevitable confessional booth tomfoolery, softcore Communion, you get it! it's what it says on the tin folks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 19:57:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15444684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/senpen_banka/pseuds/senpen_banka
Summary: A mysterious newcomer in his small-town congregation tests Kabuto's tenuous, faithless devotion to the priesthood. Needless to say, he doesn't require much coaxing to fall.(For hongmunmu's AU.)





	only fangs & sweet beguiling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hongmunmu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hongmunmu/gifts).



> my original intent was to finish this in time for raz's birthday and then it got away from me! so for now, here's the first part of this absolute travesty. thanks raz for being an unparalleled beta reader and enabler, ily and I’m sorry
> 
> warning: this is already exactly as bad as the tags would suggest and we haven't even gotten to the porn yet (with that said, rating might go up later)

The newest parishioner’s arrival, like the mythologized white smoke, is quiet and conspicuous in equal measure. He manifests one Sunday in the back of the church, noiseless despite the infamous creaks and groans of the old wooden pews. Kabuto does not notice him until several minutes into the service, and his ability to lurk undetected even for those several minutes is noteworthy. At twenty-five, Kabuto is the youngest pastor to lead the small parish in several decades at least, but he has known the names and darkest secrets of the regulars since before his seminary days.

When the newcomer first catches Kabuto’s eye, the deliberateness of his gaze causes the young minister to falter in the middle of the opening prayers, delivered in his usual perfunctory drone. While most other parishioners keep their heads bowed, their eyes closed, or their gazes fixed on something beyond or through Kabuto, the stranger locks onto him so directly that Kabuto almost feels self-conscious. He has never been one for oration, a hang-up he has had to overcome over the years, and he typically relishes the anonymity of the chanted prayers—the way they reduce him to a channel for the Word of the Almighty, rather than a flesh-and-blood individual at the mercy of the laity’s judgment. He does not want them to _see_ him.

But there is something dangerously keen about the newcomer’s eyes, bright and framed in dark, lurid makeup (or perhaps tattoos?) that form a striking contrast against the paleness of his face. It is a face utterly devoid of color, with long and shining black hair hanging down on either side, and his style is as ostentatious as his features are arresting: a dark, loosely fitting dress, ruby-red earrings and lips to match. Kabuto does not realize he is staring until one or two parishioners follow his gaze and glance towards the back wall, searching for whatever it is that holds his attention. A few of them _do_ take notice of the stranger, their faces hardening into glares that go unseen (or calmly ignored) by the object of their derision.

He hurries through the rest of the prayers so that he, and the rest of the attendees, can take their seats for the scriptures. Throughout both Old Testament readings, his own reading of the Gospel, his mechanically recited homily (recycled from this time last year, with a slightly revised opening anecdote), and all the usual tired ceremony of the Eucharist, he keeps stealing glances at the new arrival. Never once is the target of his curiosity looking anywhere other than right at him, which only deepens his (more than a little unsettled) fascination.

When it comes time for the ritual of Communion, Kabuto finds himself placing hosts into hands and open mouths distractedly, barely conscious of the robotic _the Body of Christ, the Body of Christ, the Body of Christ_ passing his lips in a mutter. The newcomer approaches slowly from the back, wearing an odd half-smile, hands drawn together in a manner that strikes Kabuto as ironic, an _I’ll play along_ sort of gesture. By the time he has reached the pastor, nothing between them now but the brass pyx in Kabuto’s left hand, the exchange has become so fraught by all their eye contact that Kabuto feels he ought to say something other than what tradition dictates.

Instead he holds up the thin wafer, says the same familiar words, although they feel somehow different now. More charged. “The Body of Christ.”

The stranger smiles and parts his painted lips, and Kabuto experiences a decidedly unwelcome sensation as he reaches forward and places the host on his tongue. He watches the stranger take just a half-second too long to close his mouth again, and Kabuto finds himself wishing he could watch the wafer melt away and dissipate. He watches the pale throat constrict with a gentle swallow. When his gaze lifts to those golden eyes again, they are so _knowing_ that his resulting shame is immediate. The stranger’s voice, when he finally speaks—although the whole exchange surely cannot be longer than five to ten seconds—is low, a rasping whisper.

“ _Amen_.”

Before he has even swept away, Kabuto has already decided to try and seek him out after Mass, to hopefully find him hovering in the vestibule, so that Kabuto might find out his name. But when he ascends the steps to the altar and sweeps his gaze around the room again, the newcomer is already gone.

 

When Kabuto calls later that night, Urushi picks up on the first ring. “Kabuto?” he answers. “What is it? Everything okay?”

“Of course everything’s okay. I just finished having dinner and thought I’d call.”

“Oh. Sorry. You just don’t call first very much, that’s all.”

Kabuto would have to concede this. Despite only living across their small town that takes maybe ten minutes to transverse by car, Urushi calls his brother almost every other night to check in. That’s the kind of relationship they have—sustained almost entirely by the efforts of Urushi, one year Kabuto’s senior and possessing about five hundred percent more emotional maturity. When Kabuto first arrived at the half-derelict local orphanage where they were both grew up, Urushi took him under his wing right away out of some inexplicable sense of responsibility. And when Nonō, the nun who raised them both as though they were her own, died when they were teenagers, Urushi resolved to work there himself in a secular capacity. Carry on the tradition and what have you.

Saddled with his own feelings of obligation but having no proclivity with children, Kabuto fell into the priesthood the way one falls into any inherited profession. Like owning a corner store, textile plant, or extermination company. He couldn’t understand the bright-eyed zealots who arrived at the seminary breathlessly proclaiming their love for Christ—to him, God felt more like some smug and withholding parent or mentor, playing cruel jokes on him and lurking at the back of his mind to drop an occasional “I told you so.”

Probably suspecting as much, Urushi calls him regularly, never saying (but also heavily implying) that Kabuto may have chosen a profession he is ill-suited for, and that there is ample time for him to change his mind. He is, after all, only twenty-five. Kabuto is certain he is reminded of his youth at least once a week: _Well, you know, you’re still young_ or _No one knows exactly what they want at twenty-five_ are common refrains. Kabuto is constantly forced to bite his tongue to keep from asking whether Urushi, in his limitless twenty-six-year-old wisdom and clarity, is sure he wants to be changing diapers and wiping noses forever. That wouldn’t be quite priestly.

Tonight, sitting in his small parish apartment and staring at the dimly lit beige walls, Kabuto chooses his words carefully as he holds the receiver to his ear. “Thought I’d try getting into the habit,” he says shortly. Then: “I believe we missed you at Mass this morning.”

Urushi snorts. “What, are you gonna be _that_ priest now? Harassing all the absentees and condemning the Chreasters?”

“Please. You know I’m only asking because you’re there most Sundays.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. Bit of a flu outbreak over here, so I’ve been in crisis mode. Speaking of, maybe don’t come to visit this week. I’ll visit you.”

“I can survive without seeing your face for as long as it takes to ensure that you’re not contagious.”

“Love you too, bro.” A beat. “So what’s this about?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, how long have we known each other? I know you don’t _do_ idle chitchat phone calls. That’s why you always hang up first because you claim you have sermons to write.”

“I _do_ have sermons to write,” Kabuto objects. “One per week, if you’ve forgotten how this works. There are only so many fictitious anecdotes one can repeat before people start to take notice.”

“Okay, well I won’t keep you, then. I give it five minutes until another one of them throws up, I’ve gotta be armed and at the ready.”

Kabuto sighs. “Wait.”

He can practically hear Urushi grinning. “Yeah, what is it?”

Kabuto fidgets with the spiraled cord of his ancient landline. _Just be casual._ “Do you know of any new arrivals in town?”

“‘New arrivals’? What is this, _ye olde village_ with a singular blacksmith and local idiot?”

“You tell me,” Kabuto says flatly. “Seeing as it takes zero effort for me to piece together all the town gossip from anonymous grievances expressed in the confessional booth.”

“Man. How many affairs do you know about, anyway?”

“Urushi.”

“Right, sorry. No, not really. I haven’t been out and about much. Is there anyone in particular that you have in mind?”

Kabuto is very deliberate with his wording: “I just noticed a bit of an interesting character at Mass this morning. I didn’t recognize him, so I don’t think he’s from around here. I didn’t get the chance to greet him.”

“‘Interesting’ how?”

He pauses, unsure how to answer. “Let’s say _flamboyant_ -interesting. Stood out quite a bit.”

“Huh. How do you mean?”

“I don’t want to say, ‘Think Jezebel.’”

Urushi laughs. “I think you just did. Are priests allowed to say their parishioners look like floozies?” Typical of Urushi to use the most sanitized possible version of the word where most people would just say _sluts_ or _whores_ , a habit Kabuto has yet to fully break in his ongoing internal monologue.

“I take it this means you don’t know who I’m referring to.”

“Nah, sorry. I can keep my ears open, though. Why the interest?” Kabuto is spared from having to come up with an answer by Urushi’s next, joking remark: “Trying to make a project out of shepherding the new sinner in town to salvation?”

It’s the best justification Kabuto can think of for his interest, so he decides to adopt it. Gaze drifting to the small wooden crucifix hanging on the otherwise blank wall, he says, “Something like that.”

 

Two days pass without Kabuto encountering the stranger, either in the church or out. By the time Tuesday morning’s Mass has concluded without incident, Kabuto has mostly succeeded at putting him out of his mind. For now. Just before eleven o’clock, however, as he places the Eucharist in its heavy, ornate monstrance on the altar for perpetual adoration, another visitor captures his attention. Announcing his arrival with a small cloud of smoke rising over his head from the back pew, making the few lingering parishioners—all sitting in the front, most elderly—turn to give him dirty looks.

Kabuto nearly rolls his eyes. Instead he proceeds to the back of the church after finishing the Latin chants, moving calmly to the center of the pew to sit next to the troublemaker.

“Hello, Suigetsu,” he says quietly, and the teenager, with his limp blue hair, barely grunts in acknowledgment. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you not to smoke in here.”

Turning his head, Suigetsu offers a crooked, sharp-toothed grin. “What? This isn’t a BYOI event?” When Kabuto doesn’t respond, he adds, “You know, like, ‘bring your own incense’—come on, it’s funny.”

“Forgive me, can’t laugh too loudly during adoration hours. Put it out, Suigetsu.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he grumbles, taking one last drag and slowly expelling the smoke before crushing the cigarette into the seat next to him. The wood is finished, not in danger of igniting, but Kabuto still feels a twinge of irritation.

“I see you have the usual amount of respect for your surroundings.”

“I see you have the usual stick up your ass, _Father_.”

 _Turn the other cheek_ , the personified voice of God in Kabuto’s head says, although really he’d just like to smack Suigetsu. “I haven’t seen you around here in a while,” he says instead.

Suigetsu shrugs. “Been busy,” he says, no further explanation. Ordinarily Kabuto would take this as an admission that he’s been using again, but he appears to be in good health. Clear skin that isn’t pale, clammy, or sallow; eyes that aren’t bloodshot or sunken into his face; a physique that, while on the scrawny side of average, no longer borders on emaciated. “The AA lady said I should try and show my face here more often, though. Keep myself grounded and in touch with spirituality and all that crap.”

“So you’re still attending regularly.”

Shoving his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt and slouching back in his seat, the teen replies, “Beats juvie. From what I’ve heard.” Before Kabuto can agree with him, he asks while scratching at the side of his face and avoiding eye contact, “Anyways, you think I could uh, talk to you outside for a minute?”

“If you’re looking to confess something—”

He scowls. “Thanks for the fuckin’ _faith_. No, nothing like that. Jesus. It’s about something I overheard. Thought you might wanna know about it.”

Something, call it intuition, tells Kabuto that he’s going to want to hear this. So he nods and rises from the pew. “Lead the way.”

They go outside and stand off to the side of the church, which is a pitiful old wooden edifice with a bad paint job and a towering steeple. It’s one of the last mild days in late October, and autumn has made its presence felt in the rural town, stripping the trees of their foliage as quickly as it ignited them with wildfire colors. The effect is gray and barren, and as Kabuto steps on the dry, dead grass, he thinks with sudden and astonishing conviction, _I hate it here_. It is a thought he has had many times before, but rarely with such clarity, a vague impression of dissatisfaction and contempt. The place where he was raised (and possibly born, for all he knows of his own origins) is as ugly as it is provincial. Small-minded people thumping their Bibles, drugging themselves into a stupor, or else resigning themselves to the mediocrity and mundaneness of their bleak, empty lives. Telling him when he was fourteen what a _tragedy_ his mother’s death was, then returning within the week to their whispers about how her _proclivities_ were what had drawn her to religious life—and now she’d gotten her comeuppance.

So really, perhaps to say he followed in her footsteps out of obligation would be telling only half of the truth. Spite played a large part too.

Outside, Suigetsu leans against the church and withdraws another cigarette from his jean pocket, lighting up immediately and sighing in relief. “That’s better.” He offers the pack to Kabuto. “Can I tempt you, Father?”

“Are you trying to best your own personal record for irreverence, Suigetsu?”

He grins. “How am I doing?”

“You said you overheard something I might want to know about?”

“Man, straight to the point, huh.” Sliding the pack into his pocket, Suigetsu takes his time savoring his cigarette before he finally sharing, “Well, if you must know, Karin said she had quite an interesting customer at the shop yesterday.”

The _shop_ Suigetsu is referring to is, of course, the only of its kind in a fifty-mile radius at least: a metaphysical supply store run by the town’s minuscule Pagan minority, offering a range of goods and services from healing crystals to Wiccan texts to tarot readings. And of course Kabuto is familiar with Karin, a teenage employee and Suigetsu’s sometimes-girlfriend who would violently protest being called such. He’s not a fan, which has less to do than Karin’s beliefs than with the simple fact of her being another teenager with an attitude. Really, he could care less about the shop, which sets him apart from the older members of the clergy and laity who like to work themselves up into a righteous, spitting fury about it. Kabuto would prefer to just let Suigetsu, Karin, and their rebellious ilk be, as he empathizes with their obvious disdain for their circumstances. All the same, he often finds himself thrust into an antagonistic dynamic with them—an unfortunate byproduct of mutual disrespect. He nags, they mock him viciously, he retaliates with more condescension, and so it goes.

In this case, however, Kabuto recognizes that the two of them probably have information that he can use. His pulse quickens at the mention of an _interesting_ customer, though he maintains an air of indifference. “‘Interesting’ how?” he asks, realizing that he’s parroting his brother on the phone last night. “You could categorize most of the shop’s clientele that way.”

“Yeah, but Karin is used to most of them. Has their fuckin’, you know, herb orders for their spells memorized or whatever. This person was _new_. Creepy, too, the way Karin described him.” As he relays the description, it is all Kabuto can do to keep a neutral expression: “Super pale, I mean _vampire_ pale, with this long dark hair and a ton of makeup. Real interesting clothes, too. You know the way people around here dress. Not like that—like he wanted to, I dunno, stand out.”

 _Casual. Neutral._ “Suigetsu, I don’t know what you expect me to make of that. I can’t exactly issue condemnation of a newcomer for _looking_ different.”

“If you’d let me fucking _finish_ , Father, I was just about to _get to_ the part that’ll interest you. And this isn’t about _condemnation_. More like a…friendly warning.” He grins then, and even though Kabuto knows Suigetsu is merely the local burnout—no one to be scared of—he still feels uneasy. “Apparently he was browsing for a real long time until the shop was empty, and as soon as the last customer left, he went up to the counter and introduced himself to Karin. Started asking her a lot of weird questions.” When Kabuto gives him a look, Suigetsu shudders. “Eugh, _no_ , not like that. Gross. More like, I dunno, questions about the town and who lives here, things like that. And a lot of questions about the church.” He pauses for effect. “About _you_ , Father.”

Well, that’s unexpected. Kabuto feels his mouth go dry. “About me?”

“Yeah, apparently he seemed _real_ curious about you. Asking about your whole life story, basically—whether you’re from around here, about your mom and brother and stuff, when you joined the church, blah blah blah.” Suigetsu shrugs, blowing out more smoke. “I dunno. She said it was really weird. She told him he oughta go meet you himself because she doesn’t care enough to know everything about you. Then she sold him some snakeskins or something.” As Kabuto digests this, Suigetsu supplies helpfully, “So yeah, looks like you’ve got some kinda stalker. Better watch out.”

He isn’t sure what to say, how to interpret this news. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly legitimate explanation,” he says without conviction. “Did Karin happen to mention whether he intended to heed her advice?”

“I dunno. She said it was hard to tell what he was thinking. But he _did_ say he’d be back at the shop, so if you ask me, the odds of him showing his face around here are good, too.”

Slowly, Kabuto says, “I think he might have already.”

Suigetsu’s eyes widen. “Oh, _shit_. You’ve seen him?! Is he really that creepy?”

“It’s not my place to make those kinds of judgments, Suigetsu.”

“Okay, so _big_ ‘yes.’ Gotcha. Jesus. Did he introduce himself to you?”

Kabuto shakes his head. “No, he just—he was at Sunday Mass. I figured he’d only arrived in town recently, but I didn’t get the opportunity to formally welcome him to the congregation.”

“Huh. So he went to church _and_ the witch store? What's up with that?”

Kabuto shrugs, distracted as he answers, “It’s not atypical for agnostics to dabble in different faiths and practices, or even combine the two. Perhaps he’s shopping around, so to speak.” Shopping around for _what_ , exactly, Kabuto does not want to ponder too deeply. But if the stranger’s manner of dress and prolonged eye contact was any indication…. No. Best not to make assumptions. The kind of assumptions that lead men like Kabuto to ruin.

For his part, Suigetsu’s interest in the subject appears to already be waning. “I guess” is his only reply, and then he leans away from the church to stand upright—or rather, in his usual slouch. “Whatever. I told Karin I’d warn you, and now I've warned you. If you’re experiencing symptoms of a witch’s curse within the next week or so, you’ll know what happened and who’s to blame. For now, I’ve got better places to be.” Kabuto can only assume this means he’s going to go shoplift from the town’s sole convenience store, but he can’t be bothered to needle him about it.

“You know there’s no real power in the occult, Suigetsu.”

Suigetsu shoots him another grin, smoke drifting from his lips as he replies, “But there’s power in the devil, right Father? Even all your hoity-toity seminary schooling will tell you that.” He begins to walk off.

Kabuto remembers something. "Wait," he says. "Did Karin happen to tell you his name?"

“Huh? Oh. Yeah, it was something weird and old-sounding. Uh….” After a minute, he snaps his fingers and points. “Orochimaru! Yeah, that was it. Orochimaru.”

 _Orochimaru_. Kabuto repeats it under his breath as Suigetsu turns and meanders off. When he says the name, his voice possesses an unfamiliar, inadvertent veneration, and it unnerves him to consider what that might mean.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm borrowing heavily from raz’s conceptual work on this au so most of the idea credit goes to them! so really I’m not accountable at all
> 
> as a side note, apologies to anyone who expecting any kind of coherent worldbuilding with their priest kink—I’m not super familiar with Japanese Catholic practices and defaulted to a more generic Vaguely American setting bc that’s the Catholicism I grew up with (only to desecrate it later)
> 
> kudos and comments would be appreciated!! I’m breaking in this account for future projects so please take this inauspicious debut with a grain of salt
> 
> also: title is from "Snake Song" by Isobel Campbell & Mark Lanegan bc I couldn't resist


End file.
